I think I’m getting a notebook to go next to my bottle of whisky. Only one war story from Poppa, trenches, France, 1917. Awful.

I feel lucky. Five of six pink swirly Pyrex glasses left. I woke up one morning, broken there in the outside room. Possum pushed it from the mantle piece?

This was like visiting Nevada, the brown guillotine, eyesight for the blind.